


at first sight

by winter_angst



Series: Dribble Drabbles [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Brock Rumlow Needs a Hug, Drabble, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Relationship, mentioned child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock Rumlow was fourteen years old when he met Jack Rollins.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Dribble Drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1527689
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	at first sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> a lil drabble to get me going after a mini hiatus. special thanks to Kalika999 for her support and inspiration for this bittersweet sorta fic. I hope you like it lovely!

When Brock met Jack he was fourteen years old. Gangly and bitter he spent most of his days roaming the dusty back roads of Palmsdale. It was partially boredom, partially avoidance from his rocky home life. Always an outsider, Brock was used to a life on the fringe. He observed others because it was easier than trying to relate and his peers let him be. With his scuffed you farm clothes and permanent scowl they took him to be just as miserable as his father, who was well known as the town drunk.

Brock found shelter from the sweltering sun at the empty farmhouse in the woods. It was all boarded up but had an intact swing on the wrap around porch he could spend hours at. Watching the sun set behind the beechnuts and elms brought a strange sense of calm that Brock could never find at home. With a dull aching in his left side and a fat lip it was Brock choice destination. 

Except the empty house wasn’t empty. 

A box truck sat in the drive and an array of plastic wrapped furniture was clustered on the overgrown front lawn. He hung back, slightly lowering his body as he peered through the trees for a glimpse at who was filling a house left empty for the past fourteen plus years. With eyes so closely focused on the door, the sound of a twig snapping to the right of him had his body jolting into fight or flight. Brock ended up doing a mix of both, staggering back and tripping over twisted roots peeking up from the soil while one hand came out in a loosely formed first and the other flung up over his face on pure muscle reflex. 

As his ended up on his ass in leaf litter, a tall boy squinted down at him. 

“What’d you fall over for?” the stranger asked.

With his hammering pulse slowing Brock felt a spark of annoyance. “What’re ya doin’ sneaking up on me like that?” 

Brock got to his feet a bit slower than he would have liked but it was slow going, minding his ribs. If the dark haired boy noticed the way he held his side he didn’t show it, thin lips drawn downward in a sort of scorning look that had Brock feeling both foolish and annoyed. “I live here now.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “You don’t, do you?”

“Obviously not.” Brock brushed stray soil and stray dried leaves from his pants. His plans were spoiled and he looked like an idiot. “Still shouldn’t be sneaking up on people. Good way to get knocked out.”

Brock did his best to look intimidating. There was something about it that was satisfying in the moments where he cowered beneath the shadow of his father, begged and apologized and felt like absolutely nothing. Sometimes he could throw around his weight and it felt sorta nice. 

“I’m bigger than you. Might get yourself hurt.” 

The stranger’s lips turned upward and Brock noticed the pale scarred gouge in his bottom lip trailing down his chin. It looked a bit like the one on his thigh where a belt buckle had carved out a chunk of flesh for some transgression he couldn’t temper. 

Brock’s eyes narrowed further and that just seemed to make the dark haired boy even happier. 

“I’m Jack.” He thrust his hand out abruptly and Brock couldn’t help the slight flinch before his expression shifted from a wince to a scowl. 

“...Brock.” After a moment of hesitation he answered, slowly taking the offered hand in a stiff single handshake before withdrawing quickly. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” Jack offered a smile. “So, I take it you're from around here?”

“What gave it away?” Brock scrubbed his palms against his jeans, feeling awkward. He didn’t typically hold conversations with his peers much less strangers. “You’re from around here now too, ya know.”

“Guesso,” Jack glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “My parents made us move here. Wanted to try the simple life thing.”

Brock took in Jack’s outfit and the tight jeans, graphic tee and white sneakers certainly were not the standard in Palmsdale. Though he had come here looking for solace, something about Jack’s presence caused him only slight annoyance. 

“There ain’t anything good here,” Brock kicked a stray stone with a scoff. “Your parents sound dumb.”

“I think so too.” Jack gave him a toothy grin. “But maybe it’s more fun around here than the city.”

Brock’s closest experience to a city was Peterstown, forty five minutes west where they picked up monthly grain shipments for the beef bull they had. It had a small shopping plaza that boasted knock offs of nice brands, a market, a gas station and even a movie theater. But by the look of Jack he was from the sort of city Brock saw on television. 

He was curious — just a little bit — though he wouldn’t willingly admit it to some new to town city slicker. 

“Unless ya got a passion for cornfields and cowshit, you’re in a for a real boring time, pal.” 

Jack’s face fell a bit showing a bit of reproach towards his new home. Brock expected to feel satisfied or triumphant he had brought him to his senses but instead he was regretful to have wiped the smile from his face. Jack’s face was leaner than Brock’s, a bit longer and free of the baby fat still clinging to his bones hiding his cheekbones beneath rosy cherub flesh. 

“What do you do for fun?”

“Football games is about all that goes on ‘round here. Weekends some people get together by the old Coulson fields and have bonfires and drink shitty beer.”

Jack’s head tilted to the side and a small smile returned to his face, hesitant but pleasing to the eye. “Are you ‘some people’?” 

Brock scoffed again with a slight shrug. “I’ve dropped by from time to time. Same old same old gets boring after a while, y’know?”

“I think I’ll understand pretty quickly around here,” Jack sighed. “Man it’s so quiet here, it’s crazy. It’ll be weird not avoiding the crackheads outside of the 7-11 when I get my slushy fix.”

Somehow Brock found himself laughing. “Bud, there ain’t no way to get a slushy fix out here unless you know how to make one yourself.”

Jack tilted his head back with a slightly exaggerated groan. “Well I guess there’s only one good thing about being here.”

“Oh yeah?” Brock was amused now, the ache in his ribs a distant memory while he was so well distracted. “And what’s that?”

“You.” Jack said decisively. “At least I’ve got a friend here before my first day.”

Brock felt a familiar jolt of discomfort. Of course had friends before, back in grade school before his mother took up and left and his old man decided that the bottle and beating the shit out of Brock was the only way to cope. But friends brought complications and it could never be a genuine friendship with Brock’s constant lies. With all that in mind he should have shrugged Jack off, told him he wasn’t interested in being best pals with any guy who wore jeans that tight. 

But instead he mumbled, “Guesso.”


End file.
